Read Online The Count of Eleven by Ramsey Campbell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ramsey Campbell
Ads: Link
might be the youth’s mother was using a hand-held device to stick price tags onto cassette boxes, and headed for the ex-rental cassettes. Even here Horror seemed to be the norm; more than half the boxes offered screaming women. “Why do people want this sort of thing?” he wondered aloud.
The woman threw an armful of priced boxes into a trolley for the youth to distribute on the shelves. “Worse than that is happening to someone somewhere in the world right now.”
Jack couldn’t tell whether she intended that as an explanation or a defence. “I wasn’t attacking you personally.”
‘1 should hope not,” she said loudly to the youth.
Perhaps Jack should be guided by the critics. He began to look for boxes which quoted reviews of the films. He hadn’t realised there were so many magazines; he’d never heard of at least half of them. He tried reading some of the comments aloud while the woman and the youth competed at how ostentatiously they could ignore him. On the boxes he chose, none of the sources The Face, For Him, Q, Empire, Blitz -had a name worth eleven. Of course it didn’t matter, though he told himself playfully that he would buy anything which quoted a review from the Telegraph.
Two hours later, when the last shelf brought him back to the cash-desk, he’d found none. The trolley was piled high, mostly with discounted tapes. The youth, who had taken over at the desk while the woman conversed in a back room with two broad men in pinstriped suits, gave the trolley an unwelcoming glance and pulled a pad of receipts towards him. “Name,” he said.
“Jack Orchard. Fine Films.”
“Jack …”
“Orchard.”
The youth wrote “Awchard’ with such industriousness that Jack didn’t like to contradict him. “Fine,” Jack said, “Films,” and was already beginning to have had enough. “Do you think we should wait for your mother?”
The youth raised his head but not his gaze. “She won’t be out till next year.”
“Surely Jack blurted, and realised his blunder. “I meant, no, you carry on. With good behaviour,” he babbled, and succeeded in sneezing so as to interrupt himself.
He made another tour of the shelves while the youth slowly and inventively misspelled the titles of the films. One of the pinstriped men, who Jack had assumed were officials of some kind, frowned at him and closed the door of the back room as Jack glimpsed a bank of at least a dozen video-recorders in operation and a pile of cassettes in unmarked boxes which the other man was loading into a carton. Jack feigned interest in the shelves furthest from the room, though they held comedies featuring teenagers so vacuous he could imagine wishing a serial murderer on them, until the youth at the desk began to sum up the purchases with a calculator. Jack returned to the desk in time to watch him writing the total at the foot of the receipt. “Actually, I think you may have miscalculated,” Jack said. “You might want to tot them up again.”
The youth held up the calculator like a magician displaying a card. “I see what it says, but it’s wrong,” Jack assured him. “Did you enter some amounts more than once, do you think?”
The youth craned his head back towards the inner room, protruding his Adam’s apple at Jack. “Mrs. Vickers,” he shouted at the ceiling.
The woman waddled to the desk, demanding “Aren’t you done yet?” As she peered at the receipt she must have noticed Jack’s address, because she told him “There’s an auction by you.”
“It’s been there for years.”
She stared at him. “Five hundred used titles.”
“Video, you mean? I may have a look. Just now we’ve a disagreement over thirty-nine pounds or so.”
She glanced at the foot of the receipt and then at the figures in the window of the calculator. “I know they tally,” Jack protested, but she had already cleared the window and was stabbing at the keys with one stubby finger. When she’d finished she shook the
The woman threw an armful of priced boxes into a trolley for the youth to distribute on the shelves. “Worse than that is happening to someone somewhere in the world right now.”
Jack couldn’t tell whether she intended that as an explanation or a defence. “I wasn’t attacking you personally.”
‘1 should hope not,” she said loudly to the youth.
Perhaps Jack should be guided by the critics. He began to look for boxes which quoted reviews of the films. He hadn’t realised there were so many magazines; he’d never heard of at least half of them. He tried reading some of the comments aloud while the woman and the youth competed at how ostentatiously they could ignore him. On the boxes he chose, none of the sources The Face, For Him, Q, Empire, Blitz -had a name worth eleven. Of course it didn’t matter, though he told himself playfully that he would buy anything which quoted a review from the Telegraph.
Two hours later, when the last shelf brought him back to the cash-desk, he’d found none. The trolley was piled high, mostly with discounted tapes. The youth, who had taken over at the desk while the woman conversed in a back room with two broad men in pinstriped suits, gave the trolley an unwelcoming glance and pulled a pad of receipts towards him. “Name,” he said.
“Jack Orchard. Fine Films.”
“Jack …”
“Orchard.”
The youth wrote “Awchard’ with such industriousness that Jack didn’t like to contradict him. “Fine,” Jack said, “Films,” and was already beginning to have had enough. “Do you think we should wait for your mother?”
The youth raised his head but not his gaze. “She won’t be out till next year.”
“Surely Jack blurted, and realised his blunder. “I meant, no, you carry on. With good behaviour,” he babbled, and succeeded in sneezing so as to interrupt himself.
He made another tour of the shelves while the youth slowly and inventively misspelled the titles of the films. One of the pinstriped men, who Jack had assumed were officials of some kind, frowned at him and closed the door of the back room as Jack glimpsed a bank of at least a dozen video-recorders in operation and a pile of cassettes in unmarked boxes which the other man was loading into a carton. Jack feigned interest in the shelves furthest from the room, though they held comedies featuring teenagers so vacuous he could imagine wishing a serial murderer on them, until the youth at the desk began to sum up the purchases with a calculator. Jack returned to the desk in time to watch him writing the total at the foot of the receipt. “Actually, I think you may have miscalculated,” Jack said. “You might want to tot them up again.”
The youth held up the calculator like a magician displaying a card. “I see what it says, but it’s wrong,” Jack assured him. “Did you enter some amounts more than once, do you think?”
The youth craned his head back towards the inner room, protruding his Adam’s apple at Jack. “Mrs. Vickers,” he shouted at the ceiling.
The woman waddled to the desk, demanding “Aren’t you done yet?” As she peered at the receipt she must have noticed Jack’s address, because she told him “There’s an auction by you.”
“It’s been there for years.”
She stared at him. “Five hundred used titles.”
“Video, you mean? I may have a look. Just now we’ve a disagreement over thirty-nine pounds or so.”
She glanced at the foot of the receipt and then at the figures in the window of the calculator. “I know they tally,” Jack protested, but she had already cleared the window and was stabbing at the keys with one stubby finger. When she’d finished she shook the
Similar Books
